


Ask Dean: Tumblr Asks

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [114]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean-Centric, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Growing Old Together, Grumpy Old Men, M/M, Old Married Couple, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Series, Slice of Life, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, ask Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 16:50:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11536371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: Dean from The Chicago Verse answers questions from readers. To ask Dean a question, send your asks to compo67 at tumblr dot com.





	Ask Dean: Tumblr Asks

**Which do you prefer? the hunter life or retirement life?**

 

So.

The other day, Sam ordered the autobiography of Christopher Lee. I won’t give him shit for that because Christopher Lee. But there was something about it being out of print and wherever Sam bought it from–some obscure shop in Australia probably–didn’t write our address right. 

Who was the sap that had to go pick it up from the post office? 

This sap.

You know why hunts never take place in post offices? They’re just too damn boring. Even if there was some spirit from the Pony Express, really pissed off at the way the United States Postal Service turned out, they still wouldn’t haunt a post office. How could you ever tell the difference between a living post office employee and a dead one, anyway? Fuck knows I can’t. 

Google told me our post office was the busiest around lunch time. So I grabbed lunch at this hot dog stand and talked car parts with some of the folks there. This one lady told me all about how her husband wants to buy a Cuda and fix it up himself. No prior car experience. I told her to take his credit cards, cut them up, burn them, and bury the remains. She bought me a second hot dog.

Anyway. I got there and there were only three people ahead of me in line. I was in a good mood. I wasn’t in a rush; I left plenty of time between doing that and going back home to make dinner. Three people, couldn’t be more than fifteen minutes. And I had my cane, so I had something to lean against. Great. 

Except, it wasn’t so great.

I didn’t get to see an actual post office employee for another thirty minutes. 

Younger me could’ve stood there all day, no problem. But when you get older, standing in one place for a while? No. Just no. My hands hurt from leaning on my cane. My legs ached. My lower back wasn’t having it. But could I sit without losing my place in line? Not by the look the woman behind me in line gave me. If I had passed out, she’d have just stepped over my body. 

When I finally got to the counter, I handed the guy the print out Sam had given me to give to them. But then the guy told me it was the wrong form. Form? What form? It was just a piece of paper that said the book had been undeliverable and to pick it up at the post office, which I was trying to do without screaming. 

“No,” this dude told me. “It’s the wrong form.”

“There’s no form. I’m just picking up a book that got sent back here. There’s no form for that.”

He called over his colleague, but she joined us only after helping another customer, so I waited a good three decades. 

Thankfully, once she did get involved, she sorted things out and told her coworker where to look in the back for the undeliverables. 

Thankfully, it only took him, her, and another coworker who had been in the back–possibly also looking for another package since 1973–twenty minutes before they told me they still couldn’t find it. 

That’s when I pulled out the big guns.

I left.

I went right to the nearest Barnes and Nobles and the gal at the Customer Service desk had a copy shipped to me express.

Maybe three or four decades from now, some poor USPS worker will stumble across a copy of Christopher Lee’s autobiography. I hope they’re a fan.

So to answer your question: when I was hunting, I never had to deal with this shit. 

Which, I guess, isn’t really answering your question. That happens sometimes. 

Thanks for the question.

-D

[PS. Sam went back to the post office–he waited five minutes, stepped up to the counter, explained what happened, and walked out five minutes later with his book. Whatever. At least now we don’t have to share. He marks the pages like an animal anyway.]

 

**Any recommendations for summer activities in Chicago?**

 

Sam. Sam. Sam. 

Wait.

That’s my to-do list. Scratch that. 

Uh. Let’s see. This is a little awkward. So. I can pretty much recommend you every place I’ve had sex with a certain Sasquatch, like that club on Clark or that venue on Belmont or that dark Italian place with the live music on Tuesday nights and killer risotto. And the booths are super private and I can stretch out while Sam… 

Well, okay, I’m sure you can piece the rest together. 

Get away from the touristy shit. Go somewhere off the beaten path. 

Fuck knows I’ve beaten off on that path. 

Thanks for the Q.

-Dean

 

**Heya Dean, I'm just curious about how you've been adjusting to not being able to get around like you used to? I'm experiencing something similar myself, and I'm having a hard time not feeling like I'm a dead-weight burden. Even worse, it's really hard for me not to be able to...uh, get into the positions we've always enjoyed. It makes me feel bad not to be able to do that with my partner. Any advice or insights? Thx.**

 

This is the kind of stuff Sam is better at answering. 

But, you seem nice enough, so I’ll give it a shot. 

I hated the first cane I got. It was ugly and plain and just… not something I wanted to haul around with me. I tried to leave it at restaurants but Sam caught onto that too fast. Damn attentive jerk. 

Every time I had to go out and use that cane, I resented the fuck out of it, myself, and the person who made me take it with me–Sam. I snapped at him a few times for reminding me to use it. If he cared so much, why didn’t he walk around with one? 

So, he did.

Like. 

He took that ugly ass cane and walked with it for a whole day. He bumped into shit. Wobbled. Couldn’t turn corners worth a damn. Couldn’t carry shit in both hands. Dropped crap because he forgot about the cane. 

When he gave it back at the end of the day, he actually, I swear to god, said, “This is harder than it looks. I’m sorry.” 

Did you know that the words, “I’m sorry,” make you want to have hot, tantric sex right then and there? Yeah, I was harder than I looked (ha!). 

Anyway. 

It helped that instead of nagging, Sam understood the reasons why I hated the cane. It made me slow. It made me concentrate on shit I never had to worry about before. It made me feel old.

If your partner loves you, they’ll work with you on all this, even if you think it’s a bullshit burden. They–either on their own or at your request–will try to see what you’re going through and help you along. Talk about this shit. Let it out. I feel bad for snapping at Sam when he was trying to help. He wasn’t helping, but he was trying. And when he did help, I didn’t mind the cane so much. 

I bought a better cane at Sam’s suggestion. I actually like it. I don’t get this sense of dread when I look at it anymore. 

Okay, yeah, I can’t spend more than ten minutes on my knees to blow Sam. I can’t fuck him the way in all the ways I used to. But those ten minutes are the best god damn ten minutes ever. And positions I used to like but can’t do? Made me do research for ones I can. Sam even found a workshop at the sex shop on Clark all about sex and disability. 

I feel like I’m getting too after school special here. I told you, Sam’s better at this stuff. 

People around you will make the time and effort to care. I guess that’s what I’m trying to say. Good luck.

Thanks for the Q.

-D

 

**Speaking of your knee Dean, how is it? Do y'all have to switch up your plans -wink wink- sometimes because of it. Or do you just say fuck it, and go for it, bad knee be damned?**

 

Variety is the spice of life.

Switching up my plans is A-OK. I think I discovered a whole new position combination last week. I’ve never seen it in porn or the Kama Sutra. I could try to replicate it for you on video. Just send a check for ten grand. 

And tell Sam to man the camera, I need two hands.

(You want something bad enough, you work around it.)

Thanks for the Q.

-D

 

**Hey Deano! Okay, question: I know you two can vibe in each other's minds, and it doesn't happen often, but do you worry when Sam's psychic juju flares up? Because of his dubious past? The headaches and stuff?**

 

Woah, slow your roll on the Deano, pal. That’s heading into Sam territory and he does not take kindly to strangers. 

Now that I’ve established some boundaries, yeah, of course I worry. 

If you haven’t noticed, Sam is kind of a big deal to me.

Sorry, sorry. I’m cranky. 

I just had the most delicious jalapeno bagel with cream cheese and I want another but someone’s nagging about carbs and processed grains and heartburn like I give a damn. It’s a bagel, not a fucking bomb. Though, I guess it might be a bomb later, but I’ll spare you the details and make sure I scoot extra close to Sam in bed.

Do I get worried? Yeah. 

When you deal with this shit, it’s powerful stuff. We don’t use it for powerful stuff but it can be used for that. Does that make sense? Think of it like the dragons in Tolkien, okay? The dragon itself isn’t a huge threat if you leave it alone. But if someone overpowers it, then you got a problem.

Also, I hate Peter Jackson.

When you lose control–by force or age–that’s when this shit gets scary.

We got the by force part because we do that thing where we talk to each other (sorta) and check in (kinda) and protect ourselves. 

Aging, you can’t really do anything about.

People get older. Normal people get older and they get those sticky bath mats for their tubs so they don’t fall. 

We have entire days of migraines and shit falling off the counters and furniture moving and no exposure to light or strong smells. We have an action plan, a contract, signed and sealed, about what to do when or if this shit can’t be controlled. 

I worry. 

I buy black out curtains and hang them up on migraine days and feed him chicken soup kind of worry.

Thanks for the Q.

-Dean(o)

 

**Hey Dean, are there ever times you just stop and look around and are amazed you two are where you are, doing what you're doing?**

 

Okay. So.

Shit is about to get real. If you are under 18, I strongly advise that you leave the internet. Just go. None of this will be good for you. Go. Run. Run like Forrest.

Okay, now that we’re all presumably adults here. 

Sam blew me this morning. Not like, blew me away in a figure of speech sense. I mean got down on his knees while I was making scrambled eggs and just out of nowhere decided to blow me. 

You can imagine that I did not complain.

The eggs were burning. My ceramic pan–the new one I just bought–was screaming in agony. The toast was getting cold. My coffee was not being paid any attention. I was still in my old man pajamas and robe. My hair was a freaking mess.

But there I was.

Leaning against the kitchen counter like there was no tomorrow. And who can worry about tomorrow when Sam’s lips are on your cock, his head is bobbing, he’s applying all the right motherfucking pressure, taking me in slow to start and speeding up, testing the limits of his throat against my cock, making all those noises like he’s gonna choke but you know he lives and breathes for this.

So there I was.

I mean, I just… was.

In that moment it was just me, Sam, and that pan of burnt eggs.

Maybe less the eggs and more the me and Sam part. Anyway. There wasn’t anything else on my mind but that–but him.

I don’t know how else to describe it, but yeah, I get amazed, like you said.

And who wouldn’t?

Sam’s a genius on his knees.

Thanks for the Q.

-D

(Jesus, fuck, don’t tell him I said that last part.)

 

**I'm totally blushing, but I have to ask...what's it like being able to kiss the love of your life every single day for the rest of your life?**

 

You think I kiss the love of my life every single day?

Like, for real?

You think I wake up next to someone who, by all measure of sanity, should have stopped growing at five foot eleven, and kiss him? 

You honestly think that I reach over, early morning, grumble at him to stop waking up so god damn early, and kiss him before rolling back over to go back to sleep? 

Or that I, for some reason, get up a few minutes after his saggy ass anyway, put on coffee while he takes forever to shower, make him breakfast, serve it to him, make sure he eats the whole thing because fuck, he looks like I don’t feed him ever, and kiss him before he leaves for his first class? 

I mean, at this point, I bet you think I changed my hours at the museum so I could be home half an hour before his last class ends to make dinner, put it on the table, and build a routine like he never had but always fucking deserved, then kiss him the second he walks through the door. 

Then hands down you’re thinking that after we watch a movie or he grades papers and I watch a movie, we wind down, brush our teeth, go to bed, and he reaches over, places a hand on my chest, and I lean in and he leans in, and his mouth just looks so god damn good that I can’t help myself and maybe I’m a little too high school about this shit but I kiss him sloppy and rough, scoot myself closer to him, move the mountain of pillows aside, pin him down, ignore whatever he says about my knee, and try my best to kiss him so hard all he can do is moan.

You think I get to do that every day for the rest of my life? Really?

Well.

You’re right.

And it’s pretty fuckin’ awesome. 

Thanks for the Q. 

-D

 

**Hello there, Dean. I know Sam's bday is coming up. Any special plans?**

 

Sam had his day last month. The rest of the year is all about me. I’m the one who cooks, cleans, washes clothes, and makes chili. That fucker got his day in the spotlight and that’s enough. Do you know what a gigantic pain in the ass it is to wash jeans for someone that tall?

I think Gigantic Pain in the Ass expects me to do something quiet and discreet for his big 5-0 next year. He’s all, “I just want to celebrate here at home with some cake and a movie.” 

Uh huh.

You see, that’s code for, “Don’t fuss over me, but I’ll throw a temper tantrum if you don’t.” He might even smear Spaghetti-O’s all over the front of his shirt, face, and hair, then throw himself to the ground and roll around, then make himself dead weight if I try to pick him up.

True story. Sam. Age six.

I have pictures.

Anyway. I’m planning shit. Mostly junk that revolves about books and those nerdy board games he plays but thinks I don’t know about. Office hours at the university, my ass. I know he fell into the wrong crowd of students and they’ve locked him into playing table top games. Nerds. 

He likes Milwaukee and that’s not too bad of a drive. 

There’s this place in Michigan–motherfucking Michigan of all places–that’s right on the lake and there’s a really good brick oven pizza shop. He likes that beach, but it might not be open that early in May. 

Maybe we will just end up celebrating it here. 

Can you rent out libraries? 

Thanks for the Q. 

-D

 

**Any regrets, Dean? Or did you do it your way, like Frank?**

 

Wow, well you got right to the point, huh?

I don’t trust anyone who says some bullshit like, “I have no regrets.” Please. Peddle that shit to some other schmuck. 

There are obvious regrets that I won’t bore you by listing. You know them. You know the Winchester name and you know we’ve got regrets. 

I think the regrets that hit me close to home are smaller.

How do I explain this. 

When Sam was studying for the Bar, the week before it, he barely spoke, ate, or slept. Every moment he was awake he dedicated to studying for that damn thing. I saw him sit at his desk, or in the living room, or in the dining room, or in the god damn bathroom. He read and read and read–marked up every book, every reference guide, every study tool. He was driven, determined, unstoppable. He wanted nothing less than a perfect score.

The last night before the test, I found him at our kitchen table, asleep, holding a highlighter in one hand and a mug of tea in the other.

Regret, in that moment, was that I had raised him to be so hard on himself. 

Frank was real in that song. Regrets, I’ve had a few, my own, too few to mention. But sometimes I see Sam do something where he doesn’t put himself first–time and time again. Those are the regrets that stick with me.

I regret not being able to give him more safety, more security, more softness. 

But you know, for everything I couldn’t give him, he turned out good.

The best.

Thanks for the Q.

-D

 

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to put these together and post them here, since not everyone on AO3 has a Tumblr. :) 
> 
> I try to get to these asks as fast as I can, but sometimes they pile up on me. It's nice to see them all in one place. If you have questions for TCV Dean, feel free to pop them over to my tumblr: compo67.tumblr.com. if you enjoy reading my fic, please have a look at the other ways you can support me outside of AO3. <3
> 
> thanks!


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